


Ain't No Stranger (Been This Way Before)

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blood Kink, Cis Female Peter Hale, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Peter Hale, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fingerfucking, Menstruation, Menstruation Kink, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Politics, background Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loved orgasms, and she really loved the shuddery, mind-numbing orgasms Peter had spent months meticulously and enthusiastically learning to coax out of her.  She also loved the relief from cramps she’d get from a good climax or four, and Peter had no complaints about blood.  Definitely a win-win, all around.<br/>-<br/>Stiles has a period from hell, and Peter has a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Stranger (Been This Way Before)

**Author's Note:**

> Some discussion of murder/death, but nothing graphic. Relatively canon-compliant (other than the gender changes) up to... let's say end of 3A? But can work through 3B, or with any everybody-lives scenarios you want.
> 
> Title from Led Zeppelin’s Custard Pie, because why the hell not.

Stiles was probably two minutes away from drifting off to the blessed relief of sleep, buried in blankets with a heating pad clutched against her belly, when she heard the familiar scrape of her bedroom window being dragged open. Another cramp hit her at pretty much the same time, squeezing like a vice, which made the question of whether or not to roll over much simpler.

“Nope,” she said, without moving an inch, except to curl up a bit tighter. Half of her face was still firmly mashed into a pillow, and her blankets were pulled up past her chin, muffling her words. Whoever was creeping in her room at nine-thirty on a Friday night was just going to have to deal. “Stiles is currently down for maintenance. Please screw off and try your call again later.”

The sound of the window closing was the only answer she received, and hopefully her unwelcome visitor had wisely retreated back to the other side of the glass. Any guests of a wolfy persuasion would smell what was going on almost immediately, which was a grossly invasive thought that Stiles really didn’t want to fixate on at that moment. The point was, Scott was out of town, but even if he wasn’t, he still knew better than to press his luck when she was in the throes of a particularly bad shark week. Derek had learned his lesson the first (and last) time he’d grabbed her shoulder when she was wrapped in her agony cocoon. There was something weirdly poetic about biting a werewolf, especially when her blunt little human teeth clamping down on the meat of his hand had made Derek yelp like a scared puppy.

She was really not in the mood to deal with anyone else in the Pack sneaking in her window, with one glaring exception that really, _really_ didn’t bear thinking about. This was a weepy period, which was just awesome, really. She’d already cried five times in the past three days— twice in the past twelve hours— and she wasn’t keen on making it an even half-dozen. Especially not for something so ridiculous as pining over the absence of a certain undead weirdo. Getting misty-eyed about a goddamn beer commercial had been mortifying enough.

At this point, the creak of the windowpane wasn’t enough to light the faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as grim or as lonely as they seemed. She outright refused to even consider it. She was a grown woman, or she would be, as of next month; she could make it through a period by herself, even if she was sort of out of practice dealing with the worst discomforts without some help.

She’d buckled down, fortified herself, and managed to refrain from sending any whiny texts, even after a particularly unpleasant series of cramps that morning had her hunched over and kneeling in worship to the porcelain goddess. She’d been ravenous for two days, and the epic amount of junk she’d packed away in that time had not done her any favours once the nausea kicked in.

These negotiations were more important than her uterus throwing a tantrum. Really. Even if this was easily the worst period she’d had ages.

She just needed to keep reminding herself how profoundly shitty things would get if Scott didn’t succeed in working out an understanding with these other Packs. The last thing they needed was for half the McCall-Hale Pack to head off to college in a couple of months and leave the territory wide open, without any sort of official treaties in place to give them an ounce of legitimacy beyond the standard _True Alpha_ mojo.

Even Derek was taking the opportunity to follow Scott down to UC Davis, planning to finish the Ecology degree he’d started in New York, which meant it would just be the parents and the youngest Betas sticking around town to keep an eye on things. Not exactly a prime setup to fend off any opportunistic jackoffs looking to claim a piece of Beacon Hills, or whatever other supernatural bullshit was waiting in the wings to descend on them.

So no, Stiles hadn’t mentioned one word about her current misery, despite daily text conversations with several members of their esteemed delegation. It wouldn’t have done any good, one way or the other. Negotiations were all scheduled, with meetings, meals, and rituals spread out over the course of a week, out at some lodge retreat in the middle of nowhere. It was all weird and wolfy grandstanding, but very important if they wanted any treaties to actually count for anything, according to Derek and Peter.

And, annoyingly, the whole thing was werewolf-only: no humans allowed, not even emissaries. Stiles called major bullshit on that, but had eventually backed down in a sulk after Derek had explained, with serious eyebrows and gruesome detail, exactly how fucked they’d be if one of the other Packs discovered a nascent Spark stowaway in the McCall-Hale luggage, or whatever. Something about hidden magical threats, or what Stiles liked to describe as _big bad wolves being wimpy little babies_. The implication that Stiles’ presence, even young and half-trained as she was, would’ve been considered equivalent to sneaking in a concealed weapon was only mildly mollifying.

Stiles fully expected to see neither hide nor hair of their little diplomatic team back before Sunday afternoon, at the earliest. Two more days.

But, of course, she was dealing with the most contrary motherfucker on the face of the earth. The quiet rumble of laughter and silky voice from the shadows really shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise.

“What if I come bearing gifts?”

Stiles took a deep breath through her nose. She did not turn over.

There was a rustling noise— a plastic bag, maybe— and the click of her bedside lamp turning on, bathing the room in warm, incandescent light. Then the weight of another body settled down on the mattress, sitting just behind the hunch of Stiles’ back.

“Treats,” that voice said, sing-song and soft. Stiles watched through one slitted eye as a generous assortment of candy, mostly chocolate, was placed gently on the blankets, a few inches from her face. “For my sweet girl.”

Among all the rest of it, there was a Hershey bar calling her name like a siren, almost definitely the kind with whole almonds, and a huge bag of M&Ms. Stiles felt lightheaded, and maybe a tiny bit in love. Delicious and distracting bribery aside, however, there was still the enormous elephant crowding up the room.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Peter (never _Petra_ , no matter what the faded Missing Person posters at the Sheriff’s station said, unless you weren’t too attached to your entrails) was silent for a long moment, keeping her perch on Stiles’ bed, perfectly motionless.

“Not exactly the welcome I was expecting,” she murmured eventually, bending down to breathe the words against Stiles’ ear. “Do you want me to leave, sweetheart?”

“Depends. Does the candy stay?” Fingers brushed against the back of Stiles’ head, ruffling through the short strands of her hair. It made her shiver, though she was anything but cold.

Keeping the heating pad pressed close, she finally gathered the energy to flop over onto her back, blinking blearily up at Peter. Their faces were close enough together that Stiles could count individual eyelashes, swept up with subtle mascara, and the faint creases of laugh lines winging out from the corners of Peter’s eyes.

“Hi,” Stiles said, squirming to get comfortable under the awkward weight of the blankets, with Peter reclining beside her, pinning them down. “Why are you home early? What happened? Is everybody okay?”

“They were in one piece when I left.” Peter’s shoulder rolled in an elegantly indifferent shrug, which as an added bonus, did outstanding things to the soft swells of cleavage all but spilling out of her thin, black v-neck. “And all the heavy lifting is already done. Negotiations went well: no blood feuds started, nobody important died, and I even managed to stop Scott from accidentally bartering you away to a Pack out of Yosemite. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Did you just— You’re joking. What the hell do you mean, _bartered—_ ” Her uterus chose that moment to make its cranky presence known again, stabbing her in the stomach like a thousand hot and rusty knives, and Stiles couldn’t be expected to put up with that in a rational, mature way. Not when she’d apparently almost been sold off like a sack of wheat sometime in the past week, and the incomparable comfort of Peter’s perfect boobs were right there.

Stiles shimmied closer without any warning at all, startling a grunt out of Peter when she buried her face right in the middle of that cushy, welcoming chest. Startled, but not objecting, as evidenced by the arm burrowing under the covers and curling snugly around Stiles’ back, gathering her closer.

“You know what,” Stiles murmured, aggressively nuzzling as she considered whether trying to crawl inside Peter’s skin like a tauntaun would be too weird. “Never mind, I don’t even want to know. No details necessary.”

“Probably for the best.” Peter pressed a few kisses against the crown of Stiles’ head, spreading one hand between her shoulderblades and dragging it slowly down her spine. “Though, for the record, having to mop up our dear little Scott’s pathetic _faux pas_ every five minutes got old pretty quick. Especially when, after dragging my ass all the way out to the damn backwoods— with lumpy mattress, ancient plumbing, no _wifi_ — he still insisted on ignoring at least eighty percent of the sterling advice I had to offer. As usual.”

“Here’s a thought: maybe, I don’t know, try advising homicide less often?”

“None of you are any fun at all,” Peter groused, rubbing soothing circles over Stiles’ back. “You’re very lucky I want to keep you, more than I want to strangle Saint McCall, or I might have let that deal go down just to teach the little shit a lesson.”

“You’re such a sweet talker, babe.” There was a chance that the ebb of the clutching pain radiating out from her pelvis was a natural lull in her misery, an ordinary break from the cramps, but the timing was certainly suspicious. Stiles would have bet good money that if she twisted around to look, she’d see cruel, inky black veins crawling up Peter’s forearm.

She let her eyes droop closed, already feeling a bit woozy from the combination of supernatural pain drain, and the comforting familiarity of Peter wedged firmly into her personal space. The strong, steady thud of Peter’s heart, and the light, herbal scent lingering on her skin from her overpriced body wash… Stiles let herself sink into it, like a hot bath.

“Still didn’t tell me why you’re early,” she said, possibly slurring a tiny bit. Peter hummed, brushing a few strands of hair away from Stiles’ clammy forehead with her free hand.

“When’s the last time you took any painkillers?”

“Um.” The answer to that question really depended on how long Stiles had been burrowed in her bed, trying to sleep. Without peeking around Peter to see her clock, she really had only the vaguest idea. “Couple hours?”

“Really? Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Before Stiles could say a word, she was being peeled off of Peter’s chest like a bandaid. Struggling was useless: her arms were buried under blankets, and Peter had no qualms about throwing around the werewolf strength whenever it suited her.

“Peter!” Even if she couldn’t physically stop Peter from pressing her against the mattress and sitting up, Stiles wasn’t about to let her best hope for relief escape without a fight. “No, no, no, please, come on. Come back, c’mere, _Peter_ …”

“Relax, baby.” Stiles groaned and wriggled under the firm but careful weight of Peter’s hand, which had migrated upward, curled around her nape. “I’m going to grab some pills for you, and you’re going to stay here and decimate some of that chocolate. Be right back.”

Stiles wanted to complain, and she really wanted to grab Peter by the wrist and drag her back into position as the squishy pillow she was meant to be, but damn it if naproxen and M&Ms didn’t sound like freaking heaven.

“Fine,” Stiles said, hugging her heating pad. “But double time it, or I swear to god there won’t be a single smear of Reese’s left.”

“Funnily enough, there are more at the store.” Peter gave Stiles’ neck a gentle squeeze before getting to her feet. She idly brushed a few wrinkles out of her shirt, then not so idly swept her hands over the ass of her jeans. “Though it’d be such a shame if I had to cut our evening short to go buy more, wouldn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

By the time Peter swanned back into the room a few minutes later, with pill bottle and tall glass of water in hand, Stiles had shifted up, propping herself up against the headboard.

“Your father is in dire need of some better cologne,” Peter said. Stiles licked a bit of chocolate off her fingertips before reaching out with a grabby motion. “The bathroom reeks like... ugh. Musk, and wet moss, and desperation. Date night?”

“When the Alpha’s away,” Stiles said, and managed to catch the bottle Peter tossed to her without spilling M&Ms all over her duvet. “Dad’s been spending some time over at Melissa’s, and I’m being both supportive and very willfully ignorant of any and all details. Now, c’mere and make with the snuggles.”

“So demanding.” Easing back down onto the mattress, Peter scooted close enough that their arms butted together, proffering the dewy glass. “Here.”

Stiles gulped down two gel caps and half the water, before passing the glass back. She rested her head on Peter’s shoulder, and hid her pleased smile against soft black cotton when an arm snaked around her waist, hauling her close. There were still blankets between their bodies, but the barrier wasn’t annoying enough to move yet.

Peter’s hand wormed up under her shirt, spreading broad and warm across her stomach and nudging the heating pad out of place. Immediately, the threat of cramping seemed much less dire, and the aches in Stiles’ legs, boobs, and head all eased off; there was no way the naproxen worked that quickly.

“If you keep doing that,” Stiles said, suffering a thorough nuzzling of her hairline. “I’m gonna pass out. Quit it.”

“If you want to stay awake, sweetheart, I can be distracting.” The tips of Peter’s fingers slipped under the waistband of Stiles’ sleep shorts. The scrape of fingernails teasing the elastic edge of her briefs made her shiver. “Since your daddy’s not home, maybe a nice long shower, hm?”

That conjured up a lot of thoughts in vivid technicolor, mostly featuring a naked, soapy Peter, but the one-two punch from the unpleasant start of that sentence to the promising end made Stiles pull a face.

“Okay, first? You seriously need to stop calling him _daddy_ in that voice. You’re starting to give me a weird complex, and it’s not even remotely a turn-on. It might actually be ruining kinks I didn’t realise I had.” Peter just laughed, breathy and totally unphased, and kissed Stiles’ forehead. “And second, a shower? What, you’re here ten minutes, and you’re saying I stink, now?”

Peter rumbled, deep in her chest, and used her free hand to lift Stiles’ chin until they were eye-to-eye. Her irises were thin rings of greyish blue, overtaken by wide blown pupils.

“You smell delicious,” she said, punctuated by a deep inhale. “I want to eat you up.”

It wasn’t a surprising reaction, but that didn’t stop self-consciousness and a disturbing rush of arousal from waging a war in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, making her guts churn. She knew exactly what scent had Peter so keyed up, huffing the air like a bloodhound.

A bloodhound. Oh _god_.

“You’re so gross,” Stiles said, pursing her lips. It was either that, or give in to the giggles threatening to throw her into hysterics.

“You’re so fussy,” Peter countered, tipping Stiles’ head farther back and leaning in to brush a kiss under her jaw. “And weirdly squeamish, for someone who’s seen as much violence and gore as you have. Hence, the shower.”

“I’m not squeamish, asshole. I’m desensitized, okay, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got a blood kink.”

“Well, I do. And you, my sweet girl, have me hungry for it.” Stiles hissed as teeth nipped the side of her neck, pinching too sharply to be completely human, but nowhere near breaking the skin. She didn’t jerk away, but she did swat the back of Peter’s head.

Wait. _Bloodhound_.

“Dear god, tell me you didn’t come back early because you somehow smelled my business—” Stiles waved one hand, circling the general vicinity of her crotch. “My _situation_ , all the way out in the freaking woods. Because that is seriously creepy, Peter. That is creepy and hella weird, and you were like a hundred miles away, how did you even—”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Peter leaned back, staring at Stiles with a particularly scathing blend of incredulity and weary annoyance twisting up her features. It wasn't an entirely unfamiliar expression. “Stiles, I came home early because I got tired of being jerked around like an attack dog on a short leash, and McCall deserves a few days to flounder, now that the risks of an all-out territory war are basically over. This little treat—” Peter’s hand dipped lower, briefly cupping Stiles through her underwear. “Was just a bonus.”

Stiles kicked Peter’s calves, a little grateful for the blankets between them, even if it muffled some of the impact. Kicking werewolves usually ended up hurting Stiles more than it satisfied.

“Fuck off,” she said, squirming until that wandering hand drifted back up to rest on her belly. “Okay, creeper, if you didn’t know I was on the rag, how’d you know to bring candy?”

“Candy’s not exactly a hard sell with you, sweetheart. But of course I knew. I never said I didn’t.” Stiles opened her mouth, ready to let loose the mother of all rants about weirdo invasive werewolves, but then Peter was kissing her, wet and messy. It lasted just long enough for every thought to flutter out of Stiles’ head, and then Peter was pulling back, scraping her teeth along Stiles’ bottom lip on the way.

“Our cycles synced months ago, you idiot.”

“What?” Stiles felt dazed, and not just from the expertly played and far too short game of tonsil hockey. “Our what did the what, now? How do you— That’s not really a thing that happens, and god, why are you keeping track? Oh my _god_ , you absolute freak.”

“It’s completely normal.” Peter sighed, then reached over Stiles, snatching a few M&Ms from the gaping bag. “For werewolves, anyway. It’s a seasonal breeding thing, except we’re also human, so it just translates to a monthly schedule within a Pack. When I started to bleed at the meetings, I figured you wouldn’t be more than a day or so behind. You never noticed?”

“ _No_ , I never noticed!”

Peter clucked her tongue, tutting like she was disappointed. “We’ve been sleeping together for nearly a year. I thought you were more observant than that.”

“Not all of us have a jacked up sense of smell and a hard-on for hemoglobin, Peter!” Stiles could hear the strident shriek creeping into her voice, but she couldn’t quite stifle it. “I can’t even keep track of my own schedule, for fucksake. It’s like the world’s shittiest surprise party in my pants every month, without freaking fail. If I don’t know what my own ovaries are doing, how in the hell do you expect me to keep track of yours?”

Stiles was way too loud, and couldn’t give a shit. It was especially lucky her dad wasn’t home. There was a thirty-four year old, amoral spree murderer wandering around the house like she belonged there, fetching pain killers and feeling up the Sheriff’s underage daughter. Even if this was far from the first time she’d had Peter Hale sprawled over her bed, there were certain conversations that really didn’t need to happen. Ever, if possible.

“Breathe, baby.” Peter tossed a couple candies in her mouth, crunching. “You’re getting worked up, so just take a breath, and lay back down.”

Stiles’ cheeks were dry, but her eyes were wet. Every inch of her skin felt hot and itchy, like it didn’t fit over her bones. Her emotions were batshit wonky, and cranked up to eleven. This was officially, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst period she’d had in months.

She took a deep breath and edged closer, curling up in the cradle of Peter’s shoulder.

“You’re an asshole,” she said, flinging an arm across the dip of Peter’s waist. When an M&M was pressed lightly against her mouth, Stiles immediately snapped it up, chewing sullenly.

“I know, angel.”

 

* * *

 

One entire bag of M&Ms, half a Hershey bar, and three hotly contested Reese cups later, Stiles was feeling slightly less fragile. Also, possibly a tiny bit sick of chocolate, but not enough to regret her choices.

Chocolate-flavoured makeouts were quickly climbing up the ranks on her list of _greatest things ever_.

The blankets and the heating pad had been kicked down to the bottom of the bed, along with both of their t-shirts. Stiles arched her back as much as she could while Peter was sprawled on top of her, mauling her neck; the lace of Peter’s bra was a wonderful, torturous kind of friction against Stiles’ bare nipples. Peter wasn’t draining any of her pain at the moment, at least not that Stiles noticed, but this kind of mundane, non-supernatural distraction was pretty damned effective in helping her forget about all the aches and discomforts.

“C’mon, _fuck_ , Peter—” Peter had Stiles’ wrists pinned to the mattress while she mapped every inch of her throat with lips, teeth, and tongue, but Stiles still had two legs free to gain some leverage. She wrapped one of them firmly around Peter’s hips, pulling Peter down and bucking up at the same time. Their rhythm together was second nature by now; it only took a few adjustments to find the right angle, and then she was working herself against the thigh of Peter’s jeans in a slow, dirty grind.

“Give it to me,” Stiles said, grinning as Peter broke away from the stinging patch of hickies she’d been mouthing for at least five full minutes, snarling against Stiles’ collarbone. “C’mon, gorgeous, I want it. I want it so bad, Peter, _please_ —”

The iron grip around her wrists disappeared, quick as a flash, and her shorts were yanked down a split second later. The dark grey briefs certainly weren’t anything special, and Stiles was actually pretty keen for them to join the pyjama shorts being pulled down past her knees, but there was one small issue to consider first.

“Towels.” Reaching down, Stiles buried her fingers in Peter’s thick brown hair, giving it a tug, then another harder pull. Finally, Peter lifted her head, dragging her nose out of the crease of Stiles’ hip.

“Towels,” Stiles said again, kicking the shorts completely off her legs. “We’re not ruining my sheets, again.”

“I’ll buy you new ones, sweetheart. _Nicer_ ones, with a triple digit thread count.” Peter huffed irritably, but didn’t resist when Stiles’ foot pushed her away. “Fine, Christ. Don’t go anywhere.” Rolling off the bed with unfairly sexy, fluid grace, she wasted no time heading for the door, stripping nimbly out of her jeans on the way.

“I hate to see you go,” Stiles called after her, avidly watching the flex and roll of her favourite bubble butt in the whole world. The generous curve of Peter’s ass looked positively biteable in lace-trimmed, navy blue panties that, of course, perfectly matched her bra. “But I love watching you walk away!”

Peter muttered something barely audible, possibly along the lines of _what the fuck is wrong with me_ , as she stalked into the hallway. She was back a scant few seconds later, holding a folded, forest green towel.

“You couldn’t have grabbed one of the old ratty ones, huh,” Stiles grouched, for the sole purpose of being as obnoxious as possible, and had a towel lobbed at her head for her trouble.

“Get naked, you little shit.”

“Yes, ma’am!” The sudden influx of sugar was, perhaps, turning Stiles into a live wire of jitters and frenetic eagerness, when an hour ago she’d wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole. Or maybe it was just the promise of impending orgasm, which was pretty damned exciting on an average day. Doubly so when it served a tangible purpose, besides just feeling amazing.

Stiles loved orgasms, and she really loved the shuddery, mind-numbing orgasms Peter had spent months meticulously and enthusiastically learning to coax out of her. She also loved the relief from cramps she’d get from a good climax or four, and Peter had no complaints about blood. Definitely a win-win, all around.

Spreading the towel out, Stiles stripped off her underwear and tossed them gingerly, pad and all, over the side of the bed. Immediately, she felt wildly exposed and vaguely panicked. It was like those few minutes between stepping out of the shower and slapping on a pad, when the world seemed to narrow into a frantic race against time and gravity.

She wasn’t scrambling to stick a cork in her Red Sea this time, though. The visible flaring of Peter’s nostrils made the whole thing weirder: mortifying and bizarrely reassuring at the same time. Simultaneously harder and easier to deal with, but the conflicting mess swirling around in her gut wasn’t even slightly surprising.

A contradictory, fucked up mishmash of feelings was pretty much par for the course. She was having sex with Peter Hale, after all. Regularly. Enthusiastically. _Imminently_.

Peter was already crawling up the mattress on her hands and knees, looking every inch a predator. Which was handy, since that’s what she definitely was. Stiles squeezed her thighs together— she felt so wet already, but to be honest, she had no idea whether most of that was from the long, indulgent makeout session, the ravenous and unfairly sexy expression sharpening Peter’s face, or the simple fact that Stiles was bleeding from the vag. Probably a combination.

Peter’s hands were warm like always, sliding gently up Stiles’ legs, in a way that seemed at odds with the dangerous, prowling grace of her movements. Her fingers curled around the knobs of Stiles’ knees, parting them with a slight tug and a soft, encouraging hum. The first press of Peter’s mouth was a brief, almost chaste kiss against Stiles’ inner thigh. Her lips lingered, exploring slowly, leaving damp, cooling trails where Stiles’ skin was already humid with a fine sheen of sleepy sweat.

Stiles’ back arched, her nerves singing with anticipation. She grabbed the pillow behind her head, just for some kind of anchor, something to cling to that wasn’t Peter’s hair.

“So pretty, baby.” Fingers mirrored the same path as Peter’s mouth, trailing up Stiles’ other thigh, but moving even higher. The soft petting of her pubes made Stiles shudder. “So ripe and raw, and all for me.”

“It should freak me out,” Stiles said, voice breaking when Peter’s tongue dragged along her skin in a broad, wet lick, stopping inches away from her pussy. “ _Fuck_ , it should. I should be running for the fucking hills, with the way you get off on my blood.”

“Probably true,” Peter said amiably, then thumbed a slow circle around Stiles’ clit, not quite touching it directly. It was too much and not nearly enough, and Stiles’ hips rolled up desperately before Peter pushed her back down against the mattress. “Might be fun, too. You know I’d chase you if you ran. I could track you for miles, smelling like this.”

Stiles whined, high-pitched and mildly panicked, because the idea of Peter stalking her, hunting her down like prey, should not have been so fucking hot. Running through woods until her lungs burned, flinching at every rustle of leaves and dark shape flickering in the corner of her eye, too quick to see. Knowing that the Big Bad Wolf was on her heels. Knowing that her chances of actually getting away were minuscule against such a clever, ruthless predator. The pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, flooded with adrenaline, and the huff of bestial breaths from the shadows, closing in.

God, she was throbbing, _painfully_ turned on. That was not a healthy reaction.

“Would you run for me, Stiles,” Peter asked, in a low, purring voice, and it wasn’t really a question at all. The chemosignals were probably thick enough to choke her. “Let me chase you? Hunt you?”

“Fuck, yeah. _Yeah_.” She really needed to learn to stop agreeing to things when Peter had her naked and spread open. Her impulse control and fear responses were already messed up, even in the calmest circumstances.

“That’s my good girl.” The praise made Stiles melt, and then an instant later, the sweep of Peter’s tongue across her clit made her squeal sharply.

“Oh my god—” Peter hummed, and between that vibration, and the slow, languorous licks, Stiles couldn’t catch her breath. “Shit, _fuck_ , Peter—”

Two long fingers, just a bit thicker than Stiles’ own and always so warm to the touch, rubbed softly over her damp pubes before dipping inside, sliding in so smooth with just a hint of stretch, making her feel it. Everything was slippery and messy already, and every obscenely wet noise was impossibly loud in the quiet of her room.

The slick, rhythmic squelching of Peter’s fingers was keeping counterpoint to the shameless sounds of her mouth, lips smacking and sucking as she made every effort to eat Stiles whole. She was always so fucking _intent_ when she gave head, almost intimidatingly engrossed in the whole process. Like there was nowhere she’d rather be than pressing her face between Stiles’ thighs. But there was a voracious, almost threatening edge that crept in whenever Stiles was on the rag.

Today was no different, except maybe even hungrier than that. Usually Peter waited to get a deeper taste until she’d gotten Stiles’ off at least once, most often with a surgically precise assault on her clit. The press of her tongue, lapping at the vee she spread wide with her fingers, wriggling inside, was unexpected. Stiles wasn’t exactly complaining, but even so, it was only a brief aside before Peter was back to the task at hand, picking up a steady, licking pace across her swollen clit. Stiles’ legs had started to tremble; pleasure was building, coiling low in her belly. There was a musky, metallic tang in the air, strong enough that even Stiles could taste it.

Her shoulders twisted against the mattress, and she didn’t try to stifle her increasingly high-pitched litany of curses and wordless whining. Peter certainly wasn’t trying to be quiet, growling and snarling like some freaking Animal Planet special, even while her free hand was tracing soothing patterns over Stiles’ stomach and hip, just firmly enough to avoid tickling.

“Oh, _oh_ —” Peter’s fingers pushed in deeper, curling up and rubbing _just right_. She was so close, she could feel the tingling in the soles of her feet where they curled into the sheets. “Peter, Peter, right there, yeah, fuck—”

She ground down, fucking herself against Peter’s face, and Peter took it eagerly, working her pussy and sucking hard on her clit. Stiles’ hips twitched with tremulous little jerks as all those tight, hot feelings crested; she clenched around Peter’s fingers, shuddering and gasping as the orgasm rushed through her.

But Peter didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down to let Stiles recover, and it _hurt_ for a few exquisitely painful seconds until it didn’t— Stiles’ second orgasm sneaked in on the heels of the first, so quick she couldn’t make sense of beginnings or ends, or anything except the pressure of Peter’s lips nursing mercilessly at her clit. It was one thick, heady wave after another, and Stiles was shrieking and gushing just a little, soaking Peter’s wrist as the world went hazy at the edges.

“Delicious,” Peter rasped, sounding hoarse and ruined enough that Stiles’ pussy gave a valiant twitch, greedy around the fingers gently easing out. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart. Taste so sweet.”

The muscles in Stiles’ neck felt utterly useless, like overcooked noodles, but she forced her head to loll around, just enough to look down at the werewolf panting between her legs. Nothing was entirely fixed or grounded yet, still fuzzy in the flood of endorphins, but staring glassy-eyed up at the ceiling didn’t seem very polite.

Peter’s mouth was hanging open, slack and wet and not even remotely demure. She was obviously tasting the air with every hungry inhale, and her chin and lips were smeared with red. Red, like the bright, bloody glow of her eyes—

“What the hell!” Scrambling up the bed in a flail of limbs, shocked out of her post-climax lassitude, Stiles didn’t entirely mean to kick Peter in the head. It just sort of happened.

“Jesus, Stiles!” Pressing a hand against her cheek— her sticky hand, Stiles noticed somewhat hysterically— Peter glared. The unmistakable Alpha crimson didn’t fade. “If we could avoid breaking my fucking jaw, that would be splendid, thanks.”

“What did you do?” Yeah, she was shouting, but if the neighbours hadn’t called the cops a few minutes ago when Peter had her wailing, they could deal with this. “You— Peter, _what did you do_?”

Rising up onto her knees, moving slowly and with exaggerated care as if she knew Stiles was one wrong move away from bolting, Peter spread both her hands out in a calming gesture.

“Nothing too terrible,” she said, and finally her eyes bled back to ordinary blue again. Stiles didn’t relax. “Nothing you’ll hate me for, sweetheart, I swear.”

“Is Scott still an Alpha?” She refused to ask if he was still alive. She’d woken up in Peter’s arms too many times, draw in close like something precious and protected, and trusted at the same time. They’d kissed too often and too softly, and she’d been allowed to press her face against the vulnerable curve of Peter’s throat. After all that, it wasn’t a question she could speak out loud.

“Yes.” Peter sighed, sinking back to sit heavily on her own heels. “Still not much of one, but yes. This has nothing to do with Scott, except in the most tangential sense.”

“You killed an Alpha at the meeting.”

“I did.” Lowering her arms, Peter rested her hands on her thighs, palms up and open. The pose looked almost supplicating. “Not entirely without cause. One of the other Packs issued a challenge, and I took care of it. It’s all totally above-board and legal, at least in terms of werewolf customs. Maybe don't mention it to your father, though.”

“There is no goddamn way,” Stiles said, clinging to shreds of flinty suspicion, despite the almost overwhelming relief. “That Scott let you fight somebody _to the death_.”

“Scott didn’t have a say.” Peter’s tongue swept out, licking away most of the blood on her lower lip. It was weirdly and inappropriately sexy, and Stiles refused to react. “Even if he’d won the fight— which wasn’t guaranteed, and I promise the other Alpha didn’t share McCall’s naive infatuation with pacifism— sweet little Scott would have let the bastard walk away. We’d be ass-deep in hostile wolves within a month, all jockeying for territory, so I stepped in and handled the situation instead. A needless and dangerous complication was avoided with just a bit of good old-fashioned violence and bloodshed. Nothing to it, really.”

Stiles ran both hands back through her hair, trying to process this information in a reasonable way. It wasn’t as surprising as it could have been. She’d known this was going to happen eventually. Stiles had never been under any delusions that Peter was going to be content as a Beta forever, but she’d just figured she had more time. She’d even toyed with the idea of offering some kind of help, with planning or whatever, if only to minimize any potential fallout.

She really couldn’t have cared less about the death of some Alpha she’d never met, but that was the kind of thing that encouraged Peter’s more destructive, or at least less scrupulous tendencies. And that was bad.

People kept insisting that was bad.

“Stiles?” Peter arched her eyebrows, wearing a hopeful little smile. Her teeth were bloody. “You’re going to get blood on your sheets if you stay up there, angel.”

“Oh shit—” There was already a small, rusty smear marring the light blue cotton when Stiles jolted up, and wasn’t that just _lovely_. “God, I just— I can’t deal with this right now. I _cannot_.”

Taking a deep breath, she shuffled forward, not stopping until she was close enough to wind her arms around Peter’s neck, slumping her weight onto the other woman. Of course, Peter barely moved, holding up Stiles’ mostly limp body without any strain. The towel was bunched up unhelpfully, probably a lost cause. The sheets were going to be a write-off, again, but that was just one more fucked up thing Stiles was ignoring for the moment.

“Putting a pin in the Alpha thing,” Stiles mumbled against Peter’s collarbone. “We’re talking about it tomorrow, you psycho. I want details. I want reassurances that this isn't going to come back to bite us in the ass. But right now I want cuddles, and more chocolate, and either a nap or another orgasm.”

“All very doable,” Peter said, stroking one hand down the naked curve of Stiles’ back. And speaking of naked, even in just a bra and panties, Peter was still overdressed; that would have to be remedied.

“ _I’m_ very doable.” Stiles stretched until she had her fingers on the clasp of Peter’s bra, thumbing it open. It was easier to forget all the things she should have been freaking out about when she had Peter’s boobs to distract her. They were lush and full, more than a handful, with big rosy nipples and adorable freckles. Really, they had a lot to recommend them.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Peter said, before tossing Stiles back down onto the bed.

She tasted like iron and her eyes burned like embers, but Stiles kissed her anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Answer to a question you never asked: my headcanon is that Peter uses a menstrual cup, because walking around for days smelling like her own blood makes her twitchy and aggressive. The cup helps keep the scent to a minimum.


End file.
